The SAT Games
by hermionebunny
Summary: *WARNING: If you like the SAT, don't read this.* In regard to the Hunger Games, citizens of Panem have grown jaded. By their 74th year, the Games no longer induce proper fear within the districts. Therefore, the Capitol introduces a more terrifying competition for its tributes: the SAT Games.
1. Achieve More (Or Lose It All)

Effie jounces up to the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen of District 12," she trills, "welcome to Panem's 74th annual Hunger Games!"

Nobody listens at first- Reaping speeches never vary. We care about one thing alone: who gets selected.

"Actually," Effie continues, "we will not hold the Hunger Games this year."

This catches our attention.

"Instead, we will do something even more exciting," Effie squeals.

Hundreds of twelve- to eighteen-year olds gape at Effie, breath bated.

"This year," Effie gushes, "the Capitol will host the SAT Games."

The _what? _I exchange a confused glance with Madge, who is standing beside me.

"SAT stands for Scholastic Aptitude Test," says Effie. "The SAT Games originated at a time long before the iniquitous wars that desecrated our nation. They were a series of challenging tests used to select children for high-level schools called universities. The SAT Games are a friendly, foolproof method of demonstrating one's skill in an efficient, fair manner."

"Katniss," Madge whispers, "these S-whatever Games sound sketchy."

I nod mutely.

"As always, two tributes from each district will be selected," says Effie. "The tribute with the highest SAT score will be crowned victor. His or her district will receive the usual prizes."

"What about the other tributes?" someone calls out.

A gunshot sounds, and the person who interrupted ceases to speak.

Effie beams, white teeth gleaming blindingly. "Now, let us hear a few words from Haymitch Abernathy, mentor of District 12."

Haymitch swaggers to the podium, clearly drunk. He yanks the microphone from Effie.

"Don't listen to her," he belches. "The SAT Games aren't normal tests. They're not friendly and they're not fair. They're even worse than the Hunger Games. Stay alert, look out for traps-"

Two Peacekeepers rush to the podium and drag Haymitch away.

"Wacko drunkard," Madge hisses.

"Without further ado, let us commence with the Reaping," Effie announces. "As usual, ladies first."

She reaches into the glass ball and rummages through hundreds of slips of paper. At last, she pulls one out and reads, "Primrose Everdeen."

I groan, burying my head in my hands. Little as I know about SATs, I am positive that Prim would fail them. Prim has no "Scholastic Aptitude." She fails all of her classes because she's too nice to cheat. Everyone cheats nowadays.

_I won't let Prim suffer the unknown fate of the low scorers_, I think to myself.

So I stand up.

"I volunteer," I gasp. "I volunteer as test-taker."


	2. Stylized Stationery

I lean against the windowpane of the train, willing myself not to sob. The words "SAT: Achieve More" flash across a nearby television screen. Bile rises to my throat.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ I think.

I'm an experienced hunter, a killer in a way. I have an athletic build, adequate muscle power, and uncommon speed. But I utterly lack standardized test-taking skills.

_What'll happen to the low scorers?_ I wonder. I bury my hands in my face. If only I could forget where I was: the train to both the Capitol and the SAT Games.

The door slides open. Peeta Mellark, the boy tribute of the SAT Games, walks into my compartment. "Are you okay, Katniss?" he asks, brow furrowed in consternation.

I shrug and turn away from him immediately. I don't trust Peeta in the least bit. He seems eloquent and quick-witted- a dangerous rival for the SAT.

Despite my aloofness, Peeta seats himself beside me on the bench. He wraps an arm around my shoulder. "If you're nervous about the tests, I can tutor you," he suggests.

"A.k.a. lead me astray," I snap.

"Katniss, can't you trust me?" Peeta demands. "I don't want to be here, either."

Just then, Effie bounds in. She smiles brightly. "Hello, Katniss and Peeta," she squeaks. "I hope you've been enjoying your ride."  
We roll our eyes.

"We'll reach the Capitol in an hour," Effie continues. "Before then, there are several details I must impart.

"The SAT is a test consisting of three parts Critical Reading, Mathematics-"

"Why isn't math critical?" Peeta cuts in.

"-And Writing," Effie finishes, beaming.

_Nobody in the districts needs these skills_, I think. _We're too busy with manual labor for the Capitol. _Then I realize: our scholastic ineptitude is precisely the reason that the Capitol chose the Scholastic Aptitude Test. That way, they can publicize our stupidity and thus our inferiority.

"The SAT is designed to accurately test your logical reasoning skills," says Effie.

"Really?" said Peeta. "Then can the test figure out how I logically reason out what bread to sell. How Katniss logically reasons out where to aim her bow?"

"It tests the skills that matter," Effie snaps.

Through the window, the a shimmering, white city come into view. Peeta and I stare at it, awed.

"Welcome to the Capitol," says Effie.

...

A cluster of Peacekeepers escort me into the Remake Center. I gape at the vast mirrors, the ceiling-high shelves of makeup, the stacks of brushes.

My stylist, a handsome young man with golden eyeliner, strides up to me. "Hello, Katniss," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Cinna, your stylist."

I point to the shelves. "Are we going to use all that makeup?" I ask nervously. I might have to sit here for days.

"Actually," says Cinna, "we're not styling_ you_ this year. We're designing your _stationery_."

"Huh?"

"We're creating customized pencils, erasers, and pencil cases to ameliorate your test-taking experience," Cinna explained.

I eye him silently. _The Capitol is on a low budget, _I think to myself. _Maybe they're having financial issues._

"Want to see what I crafted?" Cinna inquires. He reaches into a vivid orange backpack and extracts a pencil, a pencil case, and an eraser.

I gasp. This is no normal stationery. I pick up the pencil. Pictures of tiny flames dance along its surface. Instead of lead, the pencil is topped by a candle wick.

"You can use it as a torch," Cinna informs me.

The eraser bears the same flame pattern as the pencil. I stroke it, then drop it in shock. Where I touched it, my fingertips have turned white.

"It erases everything at a touch," says Cinna. "You don't have to rub, which saves time and energy."

Next, I examine the pencil case. I grope inside of it and my eyes widen. My hand cannot find the edges.

"I expanded the interior in contrast to the exterior," says Cinna matter-of-factly. "While it appears an average size on the outside, a thousand pencils could comfortably fit into it."  
"Is that even possible?" I breath. "Cinna, you're incredible."

Cinna inclines his head modestly. "I did what I could," he murmurs. "I hope it helps you during the opening parade."

...

Peeta and I sit on our chariot, the last in a line of twelve chariots. We raise matching pencils in the air. Flames burn from the wicks on their tips. The firelight stirs courage within me.

In contrast, the other tributes brandish unremarkable pencils. Their intricate designs are barely discernible to me, much less to the crowd surrounding us.

As the sun sets and the chariots roll on, the flames on Peeta and my pencils burn brighter and brighter. Gradually, the crowd focuses its attention on the District 12 tributes alone. The tributes from other districts eye me and Peeta with resentment.

"Go Katniss!" someone shouts.

I actually smile, waving my sparkling pencil in the air.

"Katniss! Katniss!" the crowd chants. "Katniss, the girl on fire!"


	3. Training for a Nonexistent Future

Peeta and I stare apprehensively at the looming edifice, the Training Center. Then Effie and Haymitch shove us through the iron doors, and we are trapped within the Games for good.

We walk down the pristine white hall, fluorescent bulbs lighting our path.

Effie begins her usual chatter. "Here, you'll be trained not only for the SAT Games, but also for success in the future."  
Haymitch mutters, "Not that they'll last until then."

Effie digs the 6-inch heel of her shoe into Haymitch's foot.

…

Peeta and I walk into a classroom in the Training Center. From the rows of desks, twenty-two heads scrutinize us. I read their names and districts on placards on their desks.

At the front of the room, Cato from District Two scowls at me. His big hand cracks a pencil neatly in half. I shiver.

In one of the central desks, Foxface from District Five scribbles equations furiously into a notepad. Her other hand types at lightning speed into a calculator. An opponent to watch out for.

In the back of the room, Rue from District Eleven sits silently at her desk. Her trembling hands are crossed on the tabletop. I feel a pang of sympathy- young girls like Rue should not be subjected to such difficult tests.

Peeta and I seat ourselves in the two unoccupied desks. All twenty-four of us cast furtive glances at each other, analyzing our competition.

The door opens, and a Gamemaker strides in. He comes to a halt at the front of the room, gazing at us with piercing blue eyes.

"Hello, tributes of the SAT Games," he booms. "My name is Seneca Crane, and I will be your SAT tutor starting today."

We twist our lips into forced smiles.

Seneca smiles back, broadly. "The SATs will prepare you well for the future-"

"_What_ future?" a boy from District Ten cuts in. "You'll just butcher us all."

Seneca's smile, if possible, widens, but his eyes harden. "I see that misinformation has spread through District Ten," he chortles. "Let's discuss this later. Now, back to the SATs…"

…

The next day, the tributes again assemble in the classroom. The boy from District Ten is missing.

The girl from District Ten points to his desk. "What happened to him?" she asks fearfully.

"He had a lesson to learn," Seneca says. "And he's learned it well. He is no longer with us.

"Anyways," Seneca continues cheerfully, "You all have lots of learning to do. Let me give you some good tips for the Mathematics Section. First of all, read the question carefully. Then, underline all important parts of the question-"

"What if none of it's important?" Peeta whispers to me. "What if it's all a bunch of useless trash?"

Seneca turns to Peeta. "Excuse me? Did you have a question?"

"He's fine," I say quickly. "I answered it for him."

Seneca's gaze lingers on us for a moment too long. "Very well," he says at last, then addresses the entire room. "After you've underlined, try your best to solve the problem. If you can't solve it, try to eliminate answers. Remember, the more you eliminate, the greater chance you have of guessing correctly. If you cannot eliminate any, you should leave the answer sheet blank. Otherwise you'll lose points."

Rue raises a quivering arm into the air.  
"Yes, Rue?" says Seneca.

"Um…" splutters Rue. "I was wondering how many points you can score total."  
Up front, Cato and Clove snort. Rue shrinks in her seat.

"That is a perfectly fine question," says Seneca. "On the SAT, you may receive between 600 and 2400 points."

"600 being the highest," says Cato sarcastically. The other Career Tributes guffaw.

"And I'm sure you'll get that score," I blurt out.

Everyone turns to me. Cato snarls. "So you think you'll do better than me?" he hisses.

My mouth goes dry. Unable to muster the confidence to speak, I nod.

…

The Training has ended. The interviews about our love for studying, as well as the preliminary tests for our Sponsors' use (known as the PSAT Games), have come and gone.

Cinna escorts me into a capsule. "This will lead you to the Arena," he says.

"I know." I struggle to keep my voice from quivering.

Cinna gives me a one-armed hug. "You'll do great," he assures me. "I know you will. Use that stationery well."

I fight back tears as I hug him back. Then, all too soon, he releases me.

Through a nearby speaker, the countdown to the Games begins…

"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. ONE!"


End file.
